


Zazin Amsâl

by airebellah



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Dwarf & Hobbit Cultural Differences, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Flirting, Fluff, Khuzdul, King Thorin, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Bilbo, Pining, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Protective Thorin, Sassy Bilbo Baggins, Slash, Superstition, Superstitious Dwarves, Thorin is a Softie, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 03:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout the quest to reclaim Erebor, Bilbo learned to deal with the many vexing behaviours of the Dwarves. One thing he could never adapt to, however, was their belief in superstition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】凶兆Zazin Amsâl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14451585) by [bestvest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bestvest/pseuds/bestvest)



> Zazin amsâl - bad luck
> 
> Updates will be on Sundays.

“I do believe the worst is behind us.” Bilbo smiled and turned to his companion, the mercurial Prince who had unexpectedly hugged the Hobbit moments ago. Not to say it was unwelcome; while a little stunned at first, Bilbo had melted into the embrace, enfolded by warm fur and heavy armour.

Expecting to be greeted by the same warm, open smile the Prince had revealed moments ago, Bilbo was taken aback to see Thorin’s expression had once again hardened. Face falling, Bilbo scrambled to think of what could have possibly soured the Dwarf’s joy at seeing his home in the distance after so long.

“Wha-” Bilbo’s question was quickly cut off by shouting behind him.

“Wood, wood! I need wood!” Glóin shouted as he fluttered about, searching the empty plain. All the Dwarves looked around just as frantically, some pulling apart their own items in a desperate bid to find what they needed. Suddenly Kíli gasped, jumping up and pointing to Gandalf.

“His staff! His staff is made of wood!”

Soon thirteen Dwarves, variously pleading or threatening, surrounded the Wizard.

“Give us the staff, Tharkûn,” Dwalin said in a low voice, full of unspoken promises of suffering were his words not obeyed.

“We only mean to knock on it!” Bofur offered, smile tighter than usual as he gripped his mattock.

“Touch my staff, any of you,” Gandalf offered, flourishing the coveted item in mock presentation. “And feel the true wrath of a Wizard!”

As one, the Dwarves immediately stepped back, Dori begging to not be turned into anything _unnatural_ for good measure.

“What in Eru’s name is going on?” Bilbo shouted as he approached. “Why would you want his staff?”

“We must knock on wood!” Ori cried.

“And why, pray tell, is that?”

The Hobbit turned to Thorin, feeling his relief at seeing the Dwarf alive quickly being replaced with growing vexation.

“You have hexed our quest,” Thorin stated bitterly. “We must knock on wood to undo your ill-fated words.”

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo released the air slowly through pursed lips. Finding himself insufficiently calmed, Bilbo turned tail and walked away from the senseless group. Pacing, fingers tapped his forehead as he hummed in consideration.

“You're telling me,” the Hobbit began slowly, unable to turn around and face the irksome group just yet, “That because I said I _believe_ the worst is behind us – you know, trying for a little optimism on this Valar-forsaken, miserable quest! – you're blaming me for some misfortune that has not yet happened?”

As Bilbo finally turned back to the group, he hoped against hope that someone would burst into laughter. Perhaps Kíli would point at him with a smug grin and shout, “Gotcha!” But alas, every single Dwarf looked stricken. Gandalf, at least, appeared as thoroughly annoyed as Bilbo felt.

“You have spoken your will as if it were truth,” Thorin enunciated slowly through clenched teeth, as though Bilbo were the one deficient in intelligence. “You did not supplicate to any Valar, nor did you express it as their will.”

“They will smite us now!” Glóin harrumphed.

Bilbo sighed as he gathered his senses. Lips pursed, he risked another glance at Thorin. While certainly not as sensible as a Hobbit, the leader of the Company had always stood out amongst his own kind. He had not raided Bilbo’s larder, or demanded more food than the modest bowl of soup given to him at Bag End. The bawdy songs and lewd tales the Dwarves often shared were never incited by their leader. And while he did not condemn the Company’s rude behaviour in Rivendell, he could be surprisingly civil to Lord Elrond – when he wished to be, that is. All in all, Thorin had seemed the least, well, _senseless_ of the Dwarves, aside from his haughty attitude and the barbed insults he often threw Bilbo’s way.

It was hard to imagine now that mere moments ago, Thorin had enveloped Bilbo in a surprisingly tender embrace. The Prince certainly had a strange way of showing his concern – it involved a lot more yelling and insulting than Bilbo was quite used to – but he had showed it nevertheless. He had even apologized! Thorin Oakenshield, rightful King of Erebor, leader of the most stubborn race in all of Arda, had apologized to a simple Hobbit!

Yet Thorin stared at him now, eyes narrowed in open frustration, as if the grievances between them were no longer forgotten. Bilbo quickly turned away, his gaze passing over each Dwarf, only to be met with largely the same reaction. Finally his eyes met Gandalf, who merely shook his head in exasperation and motioned Bilbo over.

Bilbo slowly made his way to the Wizard, ignoring the heated stares of their companions. Gandalf put a long arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and herded him towards a staircase built into the side of the large rock. Together they made their way down, though Bilbo’s progress was slow going; the stairs were far larger than sensible. The Dwarves continued to splutter indignantly behind them, but Bilbo found it was easy to ignore as all his focus was on safely getting from one step to the next.

As each Dwarf made it to the bottom of the Carrock, they all but threw themselves at the nearest tree, vehemently rapping their knuckles against its bark. Gandalf and Bilbo ignored the theatrics as much as they could. On a fallen log a few metres away from their makeshift camp, backs turned to the madness, the Maiar and the Hobbit smoked some Old Toby and dreamed of simpler (Dwarf-free) times.


	2. Chapter Two

Bilbo was quite fascinated by the differences in Hobbit and Dwarf cultures, and eager to learn so long as it did not lead to offense. Which was difficult, as Dwarves could be surprisingly sensitive. Tonight, as they sat around a dwindling fire, bellies half-full from watery stew, Bilbo brought up the topic of children’s stories. Surely cautionary tales were a safe topic to breach, he thought.

“Many of our tales revolve around the Old Forest,” Bilbo divulged. “No one dares enter it, for it is said a malevolent darkness lies in its depths.” The Dwarves leaned in closer, clearly intrigued, and Bilbo surreptitiously lowered his voice. “The trees whisper to each other at night, conspiring against any traveller who is unlucky enough to pass into their border.” Not one to let down an audience, Bilbo quickly concocted a tale, as he often did back home when surrounded by inquisitive faunts.

“There was once an ill-fated traveller, named Celedor Sandheaver,” Bilbo began. “After trading in Bree, Celedor was on his way home, excited to see his wife and four faunts.”

“Four what now?” Fíli interrupted.

“Four children, now hush,” Bilbo chided quickly.

Balin interjected, “Surely this tale must be false, if he had four young’uns!”

To Bilbo’s utter bemusement, there were murmurs of agreement around the fire. But that was a conversation for another time; right now, Bilbo had a story he’d much like to finish.

Clearing his throat, he hissed with false civility, “Pardon, but may I continue?” Once met with silence, he continued:

“Now, as I was saying, Celedor was on his way home. He had left in the early morn, yet as he approached the border of the Shire, the sun had already begun to set. Celedor did not understand how he had lost so much time, but he knew he did not want to be alone in the wilderness after nightfall. In front of him lay the Old Forest, a tempting shortcut. Celedor knew well the evil within, yet he found himself drawn to the woodland. Before he could make up his mind, his feet started moving. Once he took a single step inside, the trees rearranged behind him, creating an impenetrable fortress. They were so tall and crowded the sun could not reach him, and Celedor was condemned to the darkness.

“The foliage whispered to him, guiding him with false promises of safety, deeper and deeper into its depths. With every step the trees crowded closer and closer, until their branches weaved between his legs and grasped his arms, holding him prisoner. Struggle as he might, the wood proved too strong. For the trees of that forest hate everything with two legs, and when Celedor had approached its border, he had sealed his fate.”

Kíli leaned towards Bilbo, elbows on his knees, brown eyes wide with intrigue. “What happened to him?” he asked with breathless curiosity.

“The trees consumed his body, and trapped his soul within its borders. He is condemned to walk among the very trees that killed him, still searching for his wife and little children.”

Bilbo fought down a smile as some of his companions eyed the nearby foliage with poorly concealed suspicion.

“Many believe the Old Forest is inhabited by Fey,” he explained.

The atmosphere quickly shifted as the Dwarves all stiffened, Bofur stammering, “Aye, th-the Good Folk!”

“Best leave them to their merry ways,” Balin added slowly, eyes shifting around the camp apprehensively.

“The Good Folk?” Bilbo repeated, genuinely surprised. “They’re a nasty bunch, best to avoid them altogether.”

The Hobbit gulped as thirteen sets of terrified eyes swiveled to stare at him. Kíli shook his head, almost imperceptibly, prompting Bilbo to hiss, “What? What is it?”

“Master Baggins,” Thorin choked. Opening his mouth to say more, the Prince thought better of it with a sound snap of his jaw. Standing, Thorin scanned their surroundings before motioning for Bilbo to follow. The leader escorted the baffled Hobbit away, Bilbo silently wondering how the Dwarves could practically praise the Fey. Even amongst Hobbits, who were in no way as superstitious as Dwarves, the small sprites were known their cruel tricks.

Once in a secluded area, Thorin stopped, taking a deep breath before finally turning around. Bilbo stood a polite distance away, yet the Prince closed the space, head tilted downwards conspiratorially.

“Do you have any iron on you?” the Dwarf whispered hurriedly. Bilbo gulped, stomach twisting at the feel of Thorin’s warm breath on his face. Unable to find his voice, he simply shook his head. Muttering in irritated Khuzdul, Thorin pulled a large band from his forefinger. Presenting the ring to the Hobbit, Thorin advised, “I would ask that you not remove this, for your own protection.”

“My own – what?” Bilbo floundered. “Protection, what are you talking about?”

The Prince gave an exaggerated sigh through clenched teeth, casting another furtive glance around. Seemingly unsatisfied, a thick covered hand grasped Bilbo’s small arm and pulled him farther away.

“Your words have no doubt angered the Good Folk,” he hissed in Bilbo’s ear, breath heavy against the Hobbit’s skin despite the utterance being barely audible. “So long as you wear this, they cannot harm you.”

As it turned out, each of Bilbo’s fingers were too small. Instead, the piece of iron was thrust into Bilbo’s palm. Irked, the Hobbit was about to ask if the Prince seriously planned for him to _hold it_ the entire journey when he saw Thorin fiddling with his own garments.

“When the dragon attacked Erebor,” Thorin began solemnly, “There was not time to grab possessions. I have kept this chain, which I was wearing that day,” – finally he shifted his armour enough to withdraw a thin gold chain – “Lo these many years. It is one of the few things I have not yet had to barter away to feed my people.”

Large hands swept aside a thick, wavy mane as Thorin reached back to unfasten the chain. He continued speaking as he retrieved the iron ring from Bilbo’s hand, stringing it onto the necklace. “It is small for me now. But I believe it will fit the slender neck of a Halfling quite well.”

“Thorin, I can’t take this,” Bilbo declined.

“You are not taking it,” Thorin insisted. “I am giving it to you.”

Resolutely, Thorin’s hands brushed aside golden curls as he clasped the chain at the back of Bilbo’s neck. The rough drag of callused fingers on his sensitive nape sent shivers down Bilbo’s spine. Gulping, the Hobbit trailed his own fingers down the skin-warmed gold, caressing the iron ring.

Bilbo’s voice was hoarse with suppressed emotion as he whispered, “Thank you, Thorin.”

“Wear it under your strange layers,” Thorin simply warned in response. “So that it may touch bare skin.”

The content warmth spreading through Bilbo’s stomach was quickly forgotten. “Strange layers?” he sputtered indignantly. “This, coming from the one who wears _fur_ in the middle of summer!”

The Prince merely walked away, though Bilbo could have sworn the Dwarf’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. His own lips curving up happily, Bilbo glanced down at the jewelry now adorning his neck.

Smile slowly fading, he recalled Thorin’s earlier words.

Did the Prince consider this as bartering for his future? Thanks to Gandalf, the Dwarves were convinced they needed Bilbo to succeed on this journey. If the Fey were angered by what Bilbo had said, in their eyes the quest could be forfeited in the near future. The leader of the Company had indeed given Bilbo the ring and the chain, but not of his own volition, not truly; it was yet another sacrifice given for the sake of his people.

This was not some token given freely in friendship or otherwise, despite what the hopeful Hobbit may wish. No, it was responsibility and duty that now weighed heavily on Bilbo’s neck, mingled with the hopelessness of unrequited affection.


	3. Chapter Three

The journey was incredibly grueling thus far, and to be so close to Erebor had an undeniably uplifting effect. The Lonely Mountain stood in the distance, tall and solitary, a heartening balm to weary souls. It seemed none of the Dwarves could get the mountain off their minds. Though it was unsurprising to say the least, given they had not been so close to their homeland in over one hundred and seventy years. Some, such as Fíli and Kíli, had never even seen the halls of their ancestors. Bilbo could not bear to think of such a thing, his heart wrenching at the mere thought.

Though the Master’s welcoming of the Company was ultimately self-serving, it was quite gratifying to finally be surrounded by people who were actually _encouraging_ their quest. Along the way they had met so many who tried to stop, deter, and even imprison them. At best, the Company had received begrudging aid – and that had come only from the Skin-changer.

In Esgaroth, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield was hailed as heroes, celebrated for a victory not yet achieved. Ale and mead poured freely, and food was in abundance. Bilbo did not even mind that almost every dish revolved around fish; he was simply glad to have something warm in his belly! In truth, he could do without the ridiculously extravagant layers forced upon them. But overall, Bilbo was grateful for all Lake-Town had done for them.

After the feast in their honour, everyone retired to the housing reserved specifically for the Company. They sat in the parlour, smoking and chugging ale. While still holding a respectful solemnity for their homeland in the distance, the atmosphere was quite light. Some of the Dwarves spoke in hushed tones, but most seemed content to merely sit, eyes glazed over as they lost themselves in memory.

“I say, lads,” Balin spoke suddenly, turning to address the entire room. “We have toiled much, but our sojourn has not been in vain. Today we have been blessed with a sight many of us left for dreams long ago.” Balin’s somber gaze turned to the window where Erebor would have been seen if not for nightfall.

There was a soft round of _aye_ ’s following the speech.

Dwalin muttered after his brother, “To think we’ve been helped by humans.”

To everyone’s surprise, a nervous Ori stood from his seat.

“Time and again we have sought aid, only to be rejected,” he began timidly, though his voice grew confident as his companions nodded in agreement. “Yet now, at the last leg of our journey, it is _humans_ that have helped us!”

“I say it is a good omen,” interjected Óin, a newly gifted trumpet held to his ear as Dori clasped a proud arm around his youngest brother. “Surely the luck of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield is turning!”

Glóin jumped up, booted feet stamping against the wooden floors. “The portents foretold of old are coming true! Fate is with us!”

Around Bilbo, the Dwarves murmured excitedly to each other, enthusiastic Khuzdul rapidly passing between neighbours. The room buzzed with the hushed conversations, the Dwarves exchanging encouraged grins and inspiring clasps.

Thorin stood isolated from the others, projecting his customary brooding into the depths of the fire. The Dwarf had seemed deaf to everyone’s words, posture unmoving. But finally their leader turned around, slowly coming to face the crowd. The buzz of conversation came to a stop as everyone turned to Thorin expectantly. Their Prince stood tall and proud, chin tilted not with haughtiness, but with reverence.

“Aye, it is true,” the Dwarf finally spoke to the hushed room. “I feel it in my heart. The Dwarves of Erebor shall return to their homeland!” Short though it was, the speech was spoken with such fierce, earnest belief, Bilbo felt his heart warming with joy. Those remaining seated jumped from their chairs, feet stomping and voices shouting in cheer.

And then Bilbo sneezed.

The room immediately filled with silence. Upraised arms were dropped, stamping boots were tripped over, roars died in throats. All eyes turned to the small, timid Hobbit, who was quick to cover his nose with the handkerchief that he could have cried for in relief when given to him.

“Terribly sorry,” Bilbo mumbled, voice pitched as he tried to blow his nose as politely as possibly while an _entire room stared at him_. “I didn’t mean to interrupt; go on, then.”

Bilbo understood his sneeze was an impolite blunder, interrupting an uplifting speech from the inspired Prince. Yet even now, the staring had not stopped. In fact, the Dwarves seemed to be leaning closer to him, and Bilbo’s skin tingled nervously.

“What?” he demanded, eyeing the others warily.

Thorin stepped away from the fire, slowly approaching Bilbo with wide stunned eyes and outstretched hands. Bilbo gulped nervously, wondering if his gaffe surpassed discourtesy and was perhaps _treasonous_ to these people. However, as he got closer, it became clear that Thorin was not angry, as Bilbo had assumed; in fact, he looked positively amazed, as if Bilbo were the long-lost Arkenstone in the flesh.

“’Umsal,” Thorin breathed, reaching to grab a flinching Bilbo’s hands. “How I have doubted you.”

Bilbo looked behind the peculiar-acting Prince, but no help came from his comrades. In fact, they all mimicked the look of bewildered astonishment.

Helpless, Bilbo asked, “What are you talking about?”

“When you joined our quest,” Thorin began his dramatic rendition, “I thought the only good luck you could possibly offer is increasing our numbers from thirteen. Then you saved us from the trolls with solely your wits, and faced the Defiler alone while brandishing a weapon you knew not how to use. You saved my life, and went on to free us from that cursed dungeon. Yet this, truly, must be the grandest gift you have bestowed upon us!” He turned to the rest of the Company, raising Bilbo’s hands victoriously. Everyone cheered, Thorin exclaiming, “Astû masali!” as he waved the Hobbit’s strained arms.

Bilbo snatched his hands away with a hiss. “Would you _stop that_ , please?” He rubbed his wrists mulishly, despite Thorin’s surprisingly gentle grip. “And please tell me what I have done – what could possibly warrant such celebration?”

“You sneezed,” Thorin answered simply, though he spoke as though Bilbo’s sneeze alone had slayed the Dragon awaiting them.

“Yes, and?” Bilbo insisted impatiently. “Why is that so grand?”

“To sneeze when someone is speaking guarantees what has just been said will happen,” Thorin explained with a small, pleased smile.

As the pieces slowly came together, Bilbo sighed in exasperation, dropping his head into his palm. “Because I sneezed while you said we will take back the Lonely Mountain,” he drawled, as if speaking slowly would somehow bring some sense to these absurd creatures. “You think it’s actually going to happen?” He peeked up from his warm hand, treacherously hoping Thorin might _actually_ see the absurdity of such a statement. Instead, the Prince grinned at him, eyes soft and affectionate.

“Aye, and it ‘tis. Thanks to you, muhudel.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, finger raised, fully prepared to give the Dwarf a thorough talking to. But his gaze went from Thorin’s devastatingly joyful stare, to the appreciative grins of the Company, and the futility of it all suddenly exhausted him. Instead Bilbo walked away, promising himself a long, hot bath as compensation for all he had to deal with. He braved a glance over his shoulder, only to see the Dwarf Prince completely unperturbed by the Hobbit’s aggravation, watching him with a nauseating amount of appreciation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Umsal – greatest luck  
> Astû masali – you (are) element of (the) luck  
> Muhudel – blessing of (all) blessings


	4. Chapter Four

The Company searched the base of the Lonely Mountain for any hint of the secret entrance marked on their map. Bilbo’s bare toes spread out to grip the craggy ground, the sensation of small stones slipping beneath one’s feet terribly foreign to the Shireling. Nevertheless he pushed ahead, passing a layer of boulders only to find an opening between the rocks.

“Up here!” he cried as he set eyes on an enormous statue, a crude staircase cut into the design to hide in plain sight. Turning around, Bilbo watched Thorin sprint towards him, the Dwarf’s lips parting into a stunning, rare grin as he laid eyes upon the entrance.

“You have keen eyes, Master Baggins,” Thorin praised, voice husky from their harried searching. Beaming, Bilbo turned towards the Prince, the Dwarf smiling warmly in return. Bilbo could no longer deny the way such a look made his stomach clench in anticipation, ears and neck flushing with pleasure.

The moment between the Prince and his Hobbit was quite rudely interrupted, however, with Glóin’s furious spitting.

Horrified, Bilbo turned to the offending Dwarf. “Did you just _spit_?” he exclaimed, unable to hide his disgust.

“Just looking out for ya, laddie,” Glóin declared proudly.

“My thanks, Glóin,” Thorin acknowledged, resting a protective hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

The show of affection did nothing to lessen Bilbo’s confusion, which honestly was his primary state amongst the crazy Dwarves. “Why are you thanking him for spitting?” Bilbo asked incredulously, beginning to seriously doubt his own sanity – after all, he was the one infatuated with this ridiculous Prince!

“It would not due for someone to grow envious,” Balin clarified, while somehow managing to explain absolutely nothing.

“Envious of what, exactly?” Bilbo demanded.

Balin cleared his throat, looking mildly uncomfortable. “Our Prince has praised you on your ability.”

“Apologies, Master Baggins,” Thorin declared. “I spoke in haste.”

Beyond frustrated, Bilbo pulled out of the Dwarf’s grip. “All you said is that I have keen eyes!” he exclaimed.

“Fear not,” Thorin mollified the bemused Hobbit. “When the beast is dead, I will have you draped in rubies.”

The Company murmured amongst themselves, seemingly pleased with this notion.

Bilbo, on the other hand, was quite horrified. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Thorin slowly approached, grasping Bilbo’s arms gently as he leaned in towards the bewildered Hobbit. Black wavy locks fell in the gap between their faces, creating the illusion of intimate privacy. “Red wards off the evil eye, and you have much to be envied,” he explained softly, brow lifting significantly as a smile spread across his face.

Bilbo was left quite stunned – and no less confused – as the Dwarf pulled away. Starting towards the mountain, the home he had waited so long for, the leader turned back to his Company. “We must make it to the top before sunset!” he called, marching forth as the others followed obediently.

“Come, laddie,” Balin ushered Bilbo, who had not yet moved to join them. “I will explain on the way.”

True to his word, Balin remained with Bilbo at the back of the group. Huffing between words, they gradually made their way up the seemingly endless staircase.

“The evil eye is a curse that may befall any. It is oft conjured by a malevolent stare,” the old Dwarf lectured. “However, some may cast an evil eye upon another by accident.”

“And how do you cast it accidentally?” Bilbo asked, more out of politeness than genuine intrigue.

“If one feels envious of another, they may invoke an evil eye upon them,” Balin explained. “Glóin spat to ward off any ill intentions after Thorin flattered you. But such a measure will not always work. Thorin is smart to think of rubies, as the evil eye does not like the colour red.”

Bilbo could not comprehend how envy could unwittingly turn to witchcraft – much less why an arbitrary colour would be protection – though he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“You will need it,” Balin advised. “Especially when you become Consort.”

That comment had Bilbo sputtering for air, gripping the cold stone as he caught his breath. “Why would you –”

“Come now, Master Baggins.” Balin paused on his stair, reaching down to help Bilbo up. Giving a salacious wink, he turned around and began climbing again, calling over his shoulder, “It is far too late for denial, laddie!”


	5. Chapter Five

Bilbo really ought to have a talk with himself about the ridiculous expectations he had in life.

Stealing from a dragon? Sure, no problem!

Deterring a battle between Dwarves, Men, and Elves, and encouraging the forces to rally against a common enemy? Go for it!

Surviving said battle with minor injuries, and no deaths amongst those close to his heart? Well, the Valar must truly favour him!

But to expect the silliness of Dwarvish superstition to somehow, magically, disappear once Erebor was reclaimed and the dragon sickness overcome?

Now _that_ was an unbelievably _ridiculous_ notion. The bearer of such thoughts had clearly taken a devastating blow to the head!

Perhaps in the hustle and bustle of healing the wounded, Bilbo had forgotten he was amongst such an irrational race. Perchance he spent too much time with the Elves, whose healing certainly had an aura of superstition, but was supported with actual _results_. (Bilbo spending so much time with Elves had been the bane of a bed-ridden Thorin’s existence, and had led to many a diplomatic dispute between Thorin and Thranduil. Of course, the Dwarf Prince adamantly denied the conflicts in any way stemmed from jealousy.)

Now everyone was healed, the Men were rebuilding Dale, and the Elves were returning to Mirkwood. Thorin and Bilbo had imparted forgiveness upon each other, and had finally begun a formal courtship. Thorin was hailed as king by all, and his official coronation was quickly approached. Dáin had generously sent many Dwarves from the Iron Hills to aid with the rebuilding as refugees prepared to flock back to their homeland.

Bilbo sent letters to his kin back in the Shire, informing them that he was in fact alive, and would be returning after the winter to collect his belongings. Once he was gone, Bag End would pass to his cousin, Drogo Baggins. That the Sackville-Baggins were not to be allowed even in the _vicinity_ of his house was expressly stated. He could only hope the Thain would heed his wishes for the next few months, until Bilbo would arrive to officially sort everything out in person.

All in all, it was a good time for everyone inside the mountain kingdom.

Until that fateful day, when Bilbo came across a Dwarf pouring a white substance on the floor. In fact, a small pile of granules lined almost every doorway along the Royal hall.

“Excuse me?” Bilbo asked with feigned politeness, narrowed eyes belying his affront. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The Dwarf didn’t spare him a glance as he answered, “It’s for the o’zin.”

“The _what_ now?”

Something in Bilbo’s tone made the Dwarf finally look up, irritated frown quickly morphing into horrified recognition.

“M-Master Hobbit!” The pitiable Dwarf looked around desperately, unsure of what to do. He dropped the sack in his hand, spilling the white grains all over the floor. Jumping up, the dwarf gave a timid, jerking bow and apologized for the disrespect.

Bilbo let out a longsuffering sigh, rubbing his already aching temples. The Company had insisted on writing a few ballads hailing the “great deeds” of their Burglar. It had been excruciatingly embarrassing, but Bilbo had believed it would stay between them at least. Predictably, he was quite wrong. As the ballads spread, so did tales, each growing greater with embellishment. Now Dwarves seemed to revere Bilbo wherever he went, bowing and offering formalities no matter how many times the Hobbit pleaded them to stop. Thorin formally announcing to the kingdom his intent to court Bilbo had only made matters worse.

Patience quickly dissolving, Bilbo did not bother telling the Dwarf to drop the decorum. Instead, he demanded, “Why are you pouring grains all over the Royal Wing?”

“It’s salt, Your Grace!” the Dwarf chirped proudly. “To ward off the bad spirits, if ye didn’t know.”

“Ward off the bad spirits,” Bilbo echoed slowly.

“Why yes, of course!” The Dwarf’s chipper attitude slowly fell, replaced with solemnity. “Those who fell in Erebor did not have the honour of being properly buried so that they may return to stone. The King has seen to it now, but decades of defilement cannot be so easily dismissed.”

“You think the victims of Smaug’s desolation have left some kind of…” Bilbo trailed off, trying to make sense of the explanation. “Negative aura? Since they could not turn into… _stone_?”

The Dwarf nodded gravely, eyes dim with sorrow.

Bilbo’s lips quirked as he pondered this information. Thorin had told him of the importance of Dwarves being laid to rest within stone tombs, something to do with their creation, the same material from which Aulë had carved them. Bilbo understood the need to bury all the found remains, and the grief that came with finding one’s fallen kinfolk. However, to think some ill-intending sentience remained due to the tragedy that had occurred was inconceivable. Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to speak against the anguished Dwarf.

“Carry on,” Bilbo said instead, though the matter was surely not forgotten.

 

It was much later in the evening when Thorin returned to the chambers he shared with his betrothed, exhausted from a long day of reconstruction.

Once upon a time, the simple idea of sharing a bed with someone without being wed would have sent Bilbo into a fit at the impropriety and disgrace. But after all they had been through, almost losing Thorin mentally and then physically, Bilbo had begun to see that respectability was not everything. Besides, the Dwarves of Erebor apparently had no qualms about premarital relations, and as this was his new home (a thought that was surprisingly pleasing, and not at all painful), their opinion mattered more than the people of the Shire.

But when Bilbo saw salt lining not only the entrance to their chambers, but every single door inside – including the water closet for pity’s sake! – he had, for the first time, regretted rooming with the superstitious Dwarf.

“Thorin,” Bilbo hissed in lieu of a greeting.

The Dwarf had begun removing his heavy garments, but froze at his betrothed’s icy tone. Steeling himself, Thorin finished removing his cloak (and made sure to fold it properly, lest he add fuel to the fussy Hobbit’s ire) and turned to Bilbo with a strained smile.

“Yes, ghivashûh?” he asked, crooning the endearment in vain appeasement.

“Would you care to explain, my dearest, why every step I take is covered in _salt_?”

“Surely not every step, marlel,” the Dwarf pointed out unwisely. Bilbo’s narrowed eyes had him gulping, hastening to include, “It is to protect us from any _zazin murb i’zên_ that would wish us harm. Spirits with bad intentions is as close as I can translate in Common.”

“Thorin, I’m not having our private chambers covered in salt!” Bilbo shouted.

“But kurdûn,” Thorin pressed, “As I have said, the salt is only –”

“I don’t care if it’s only in the doorways! I’ve been stepping on it all day!” Pointedly, Bilbo began wiping his feet in annoyance. Even still, he could feel the grains between his toes.

Thorin looked down at his future husband’s feet. “Well, perhaps if your feet weren’t so…” he trailed off, glancing up. Burning hazel eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, nostrils flared as Bilbo forced himself to breath calmly.

“Please, finish that sentence,” the Hobbit threatened through gritted teeth.

“Mahal save me,” Thorin muttered as he eyed his betrothed’s large furred appendages, struggling to come up with something placating. “If they were not so big and… _nicely combed…_ perhaps I would not be consumed with thoughts of them, when my mind should be focused on repairing the kingdom.”

Predictably, the King’s poor attempt was not well received.

“Remove the salt. Now.” Bilbo’s tone was sharp, words enunciated with forced slowness. He turned away, only to have his shoulders grasped and spun around.

“Please ghivashûh,” Thorin beseeched, fingers trailing down Bilbo’s arms to grasp his fingers. “I know you think the ways of my people as folly, but on this I need your understanding. You may think naught of it, but I could not sleep at night, knowing you are unguarded against _narag o’zin_ , an enemy I cannot see.”

The earnest pleading in his betrothed’s eyes had Bilbo’s chest tightening guiltily. The Dwarf lifted a hand from their joined ones, brushing teasingly against Bilbo’s sensitive neck before he pulled out a gold chain, at the end of which sat a ring.

“Even now, you wear my gift,” Thorin murmured reverently, glancing up at his Hobbit with renewed hope. “May you grant me one more favour?”

With his betrothed’s earnest pleading, Bilbo found himself suffering the abomination of salt. He tried to keep his grumbling to himself – though Thorin oft accused him of unnecessarily complaining. The Hobbit could never get used to the salt linings; he was forced to carry around an extra kerchief specifically for wiping his feet. But no matter how he scrubbed, Bilbo swore he could always feel the granules rubbing between his toes. Never in his life had Bilbo wanted a pair of shoes so badly, but his Hobbit pride would never allow such an atrocity.

When the mountain was finally declared cleansed, Bilbo let out a private breath of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O’zin – art of (the) shadow/evil  
> Ghivashûh – my treasure of all treasure  
> Marlel – love of all love  
> Zazin murb i’zên – bad spirit/ghost doing evil  
> Kurdûn – man of my heart  
> Narag o’zin – black/evil art of (the) shadow  
> Kurdûn – man of my heart


	6. Chapter Six

Thorin and Bilbo’s wedding was a whirlwind of dancing, drinking, and cheering. Having so many celebrate their union had been quite dizzying, but throughout it Thorin had been a constant at Bilbo’s side; that was all that truly mattered.

When it came time to retire, the remaining attendees broke out into lewd shouts and drunken encouragement. Bofur’s advice in particular left Bilbo absolutely mortified, though strangely intrigued.

The King pulled an inebriated Bilbo away from the loud hall, and progress was slow as they made their way to the Royal Wing. Bilbo stumbled quite a few times, face flushed from his copious drinking. The giddiness of alcohol left him pleasantly buzzed, unable to suppress a fit of giggles.

But once they finally arrived at the door to the chambers, both froze. They had made no secret of living together before marriage, and yet… it felt different, to enter the chamber as a properly married couple. Licking his lips, Bilbo turned to his Dwarf with a silly grin.

“Hello, husband,” he babbled, leaning against Thorin’s chest.

“Hail, husband mine,” Thorin greeted in return, smile tugging at his lips.

Gripping Thorin’s robes for support, Bilbo lifted himself on shaky feet, head tilted upwards. Obligingly Thorin started to bend down, as Bilbo could not manage a kiss without some cooperation on his husband’s part. Bilbo slowly closed his eyes as he felt Thorin’s warm breath fanning his face.

After a moment passed, Bilbo regretfully peeled one eye open, having not been met with Thorin’s lips as expected. Instead the King was looking at the ground in confusion, eyes darting around searchingly.

“Where are the shoes?” he muttered. Leaning his inebriated partner against the wall, he crouched down and began patting the ground as if the missing footwear were somehow invisible.

“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” Bilbo slurred slightly.

“Your shoes,” Thorin explained unhelpfully. “You need shoes.”

“Hobbits don’t wear shoes, you silly,” Bilbo, no less patronizing when drunk.

Thorin kept looking, simply stating, “You need shoes.”

Bilbo snorted, the force of it sending his head spinning. Once the hallway stopped revolving, he declared, “I don’t need shoes!”

With an exasperated groan, Thorin stood back up. “You are more susceptible to evil spirits on your wedding night. They can come through the soles of your feet.”

Bilbo pondered Thorin’s words for a few silent minutes before recalling the poor Dwarf who had attempted to measure his feet. “I may have kicked the cobbler,” he confessed.

Thorin whipped around. “Bilbo, how could you do such a thing?” The Hobbit shrugged before dissolving into giggles at the scandalized looked on his husband’s face. “I’m sure you will be quite amused when we sleep in the hallway all night,” Thorin muttered bitterly.

The words were quite sobering.

“Are you daft?” Bilbo shouted, resisting the urge to smack some sense into his husband. It _was_ their wedding night, after all. “You can stay out here; I’m going in!”

Bilbo’s fingers had barely brushed the doorknob before he was grabbed at the waist and pulled away. “Thorin!” he shouted, pounding his little fists against his captor’s arms. “Let me down, you brute!”

Grunting as Bilbo landed a particularly well-aimed kick with his large, bare feet, Thorin’s grip only tightened in response. “I cannot let you walk through the threshold of our wedding chambers.”

“Wedding chambers?” Bilbo cried incredulously. “We’ve been living together for months, you big idiot!”

Thorin eventually let Bilbo down, though his arms remained a prison. “You are not walking through that door,” he growled in Bilbo’s ear.

“Well,” Bilbo started as an idea came to mind. “Who said I have to walk?”

Turning to face the Dwarf, he gave his husband a coy smile. Thorin cocked his head, considering, before an answering grin spread across his face. This time when the Dwarf lifted his Hobbit, he had one arm under Bilbo’s knees, cradling the smaller body to his chest. With exaggerated slowness, he walked through the threshold to their shared chamber. Bilbo burrowed his face into Thorin’s warm neck, breathing in his husband’s comforting scent. Closing his eyes, he found himself enveloped by his Dwarf – Thorin’s smell filled his nose, the warmth of his body spread through Bilbo’s. The Hobbit only opened his eyes once the hard Dwarven chest was replaced with silky sheets. Thorin soon joined his prone husband on the bed, leaning down to finally press his lips to Bilbo’s.

Of all the silly superstitions Bilbo had been subjected to since meeting the Dwarves, being carried to bed by his husband wasn’t so terrible after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of carrying a bride through the doorway originated from the belief that a bride was particularly susceptible to bad spirits, and her bare feet could not touch the ground. I figure with same-sex couples, Dwarves would think both are susceptible – and because Hobbits go around barefoot, only Bilbo was the problem.
> 
> Muhudel – blessing of (all) blessings  
> 'Umsal – greatest luck  
> Astû masali – you (are) element of (the) luck  
> O’zin – art of (the) shadow/evil  
> Zazin murb i’zên – bad spirit/ghost doing evil  
> Narag o’zin – black/evil art of (the) shadow
> 
> Wow, these weeks just flew by! I'm working on a 50's Greaser!Bilbo AU, which hopefully I can start posting soon. Thanks for sticking around, and if you enjoyed this, check out my other works! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to talk to me on tumblr, under the same name! :)


End file.
